The Chinese Takeout

by Judith Cutler

  ‘It certainly had the docs. pricing it by the item,’ I agreed. ‘And unsettling them.’

  ‘Which is something you like to do,’ he said. He sipped his too hot tea. ‘Am I prejudiced against them simply because of their money?’

  I hoped not. Some response was called for. I cocked my head inquiringly.

  ‘You know, green eyes? I don’t want riches, Josie, and it’s certainly wrong to envy people with them. But am I quicker to judge the rich than the poor? None of whom I should be judging in any case!’ He pressed his hands to his face, but compromised by rubbing it vigorously as if he were trying to wake up.

  ‘Grief. It’s unsettling. But I don’t think you took agin’ them because they’re loaded. It’s just that they didn’t seem very nice people. Or – let’s be charitable to them too! – perhaps grief and shock have closed them down.’ I sat in the easy chair at right angles to him. ‘Did they say anything about what sort of funeral they wanted? And where?’

  ‘To take your line, perhaps they were too shocked to have made any real decisions. Quiet. They wanted it to be very quiet. Which rather rules out the cathedral.’

  ‘It would be more…more seemly here,’ I said. ‘And the villagers would much prefer it on home territory. The choir’s already putting in extra practice, they tell me. But what about Tang? A shared or a separate service?’

  ‘The Martins aren’t exactly paid up members of the Tang fan club. In any case, I’ve got one of my colleagues on to the Chinese Embassy for advice.’

  ‘Whatever they say, there’s nothing wrong with holding a memorial service, surely? For him and Tim?’

  ‘At St Faith and St Lawrence? Or maybe in the St Jude’s graveyard?’

  ‘A bit symbolic, all those ashes and the smell of burning?’ I asked doubtfully.

  ‘Exactly. Yes, I’d quite like it there. I wonder what the St Jude’s people would say. I suppose you haven’t had a chance to talk to them?’

  My turn to cover my face – with shame. ‘I’ve not even been in touch with Annie!’

  ‘Who hasn’t been in touch with you, either. Don’t take all this on yourself, Josie. You’ve been rocketing round doing your thing. Other people have their own lives too. Sure, Tang touched Annie’s, but she was going on holiday anyway, and didn’t see any need to change her arrangements. Corbishley and Malins seem to have gone to ground. No one can do more than their best. And how—’ he looked pointedly at the bruises clearly visible now I was wearing a skirt ‘—you managed to clean the rectory when you must have been in real pain, only you and God know.’

  ‘And He’s not letting on either,’ I confirmed. ‘Andy, why did they want to go to the rectory alone?’

  He looked at me as if I were three. ‘It was his home, Josie – personal things, family things…’

  ‘Did you see any personal or family things? When you were cleaning up? Quite. It was more like a hotel – a very tatty motel, then – than a home.’

  ‘All the same…’

  ‘And have they asked to see St Faith and St Lawrence, which he really loved? Or any of his other churches? Especially the one where he died?’

  ‘I think you may be reading too much into the situation,’ he said gently. ‘There again,’ and he was on his feet as swiftly as a man half his age, ‘you may not. What if I just drop in on them? Offer to pray with them.’

  ‘And report back to me?’

  ‘Would I dare not?’

  Any other man I’d have twisted my head so that his kiss landed not lightly on my cheek, but full on my lips. And there’d have been nothing light about it by the time I’d finished. As it was, I made sure my smile was as conspiratorial as his as he turned to leave, his tea only half-drunk.

  Though I really should have had a long hard walk, not just the ambulatory equivalent of a cold bath, but a means of keeping the scales on my side, I was lured to the computer, ready to Google their names as fast as my fingers would tap them. Except, of course, I didn’t know their first names. Either of them. Because they weren’t technically paying guests, not staying as customers, I hadn’t made them sign the White Hart register. Big mistake. I’d shove it under their doctored noses the moment they returned.

  Meanwhile, the excuse for not taking a walk had dwindled, and, camera as always to hand, I set off in the opposite direction from the rectory. OK, not at my usual speed, nor anything like. But at least I was moving: I’d keep at it for ten minutes.

  I never carried the camera for any special purpose, not unless I was on a jaunt like yesterday’s. Which reminded me: I hadn’t asked Andy for the photos. At least he’d had the sense not to flash them round in front of other people, as if they were holiday snaps. And he would have stowed the sets of copies where I’d asked.

  It was nice being able to trust someone.

  Touch wood.

  ‘Health and Safety regulations,’ I said blithely, having a nasty feeling the Drs T H and C M Martin knew I was lying. Did they also know I’d wanted to check them out? ‘If there were a fire I’d need to account for every one.’ Hell, that hadn’t been very tactful. ‘Name and address there. And car reg. too. Just in case. Thanks.’

  I’d laid the register on the table in their quarters – a very official-looking one it was too, thanks to Lucy, who’d once had to improvise with a school folder and had subsequently given me this handsome specimen her family’s first Christmas here. All the kids had given me Christmas presents too, which would have reduced me to a quivering pulp of tears, had not turkeys demanded to be basted. But before I disappeared to the kitchen I made sure I saw their faces, as they opened not just the sensible presents of clothes Lucy had suggested but silly extravagances. They’d never be my blood family, but at least I could pretend to be a favourite aunt.

  Since no comment was forthcoming, I asked what time the Martins wanted to dine. Or, when that elicited no immediate response, if they would prefer me to phone ahead to one of Taunton’s excellent brasseries.

  ‘We’ll let you know, shall we?’ she said dismissively. When I didn’t dismiss, she added, ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘Only for you,’ I said, definitely not servile, ‘if they happen to be full.’ But I wouldn’t give even the appearance of soliciting custom, and retreated to my own sanctum.

  Where Andy was waiting, kettle poised over a couple of mugs. ‘They were looking through his theological textbooks,’ he reported without preamble. ‘They declined my offer of tea – I’d taken the sort of precaution I associate with you, Josie, of buying supplies at the village shop – and accepted my invitation to go to St Faith and St Lawrence.’ He sounded disappointed.

  ‘Which they looked at as emotionally as if they were Japanese tourists,’ I suggested.

  ‘At least they didn’t see it only through the lens of a posh camera! The flower ladies had done a wonderful job: they’d blown up a photo of Tim taken at someone’s christening, framed it in black, and surrounded it with spring flowers. It was in the porch, of course,’ he added, eyes twinkling.

  ‘Of course,’ I echoed. ‘It being Lent! Did they want to see the other churches in the benefice?’

  ‘Only St Jude’s. I expected them to fish some flowers out of the boot and add them to that lovely bank of offerings. No. They talked to the constables on guard, but that was all. They were so cold, Josie, so controlled.’

  ‘I could tip a nice big bowl of rhubarb fool into their laps tonight.’

  ‘If I know your food it would be a total waste.’

  ‘It’ll be Pix’s. And a dream. You’ll be able to try it, anyway.’

  ‘They very clearly didn’t invite me.’ There was a note in his voice I couldn’t identify when he added, ‘So I shall spend an evening in front of the computer trying to draft some sort of order for his service: they don’t want any input.’

  ‘Spend it in front of mine and I’ll slip you some rhubarb fool.’

  ‘Maybe I ought to be getting back… I wish you did take-outs, Josie.’

  ‘For you
, Andy, even that can be arranged. Come and check my emergency freezer – so long as you promise to reheat everything thoroughly.’

  He nodded absently.

  I repeated the instruction. ‘Bacteria, Andy. You need to kill them. Which reminds me, what about our photos?’

  ‘So clear you could have them blown up and sold as mementoes to the owners. All safe and sound. I thought – I was afraid you’d skin me alive if I brought them over here without permission.’

  ‘So I would. Twice. So when am I going to see them? I want to check them against the map, and then on the ground.’

  His face fell. I’d used the wrong pronoun, hadn’t I? He wanted it to be ‘we’.

  ‘So when are you free to come over?’ I asked.

  Mouth corners up again. ‘Let’s think… Early communion tomorrow plus a diocese meeting: Bishop Jonathan wants to be apprised of latest developments.’ Apprised: just the sort of word I’d expect the bishop to employ. ‘But I could be here by one?’

  I shook my head. ‘I shall be tied up till two, at the earliest. And I’d have to be back at five at the latest.’

  ‘We could knock off a couple?’ he pleaded.

  Was it enthusiasm for detecting or for something else? ‘Are you better at driving or navigating?’ I asked, by way of agreement.

  ‘You know, once or twice I navigated on rallies. Only student things. But I can read maps quite well. And your car’s nicer than mine.’ He produced a smile to die for.

  It took me about three minutes to establish that it would take more time and patience than I had at my disposal to check all the responses Google and Jeeves and the rest gave to my inquiry. So I’d do something else. I’d ask the Martins themselves.

  When you’re in my line of business, you can flex your people skills to fulfil the needs of the moment. You can do sycophantic, impassive, helpful, surly – it comes not with mother’s milk but with years of training. Tonight I’d do ditzy inquisitive, thickly disguising ruthlessly inquisitorial. It’d help if they were going to eat in, of course – which required other places to be booked out. If I were the one doing the booking, I could more or less guarantee that, either, if I knew the maitre d’, by telling him he was full, wasn’t he, or simply by lying to the Martins.

  In fact the weather came to my assistance, so subterfuge wasn’t needed. If the mist rolled in, filling the valleys or topping the hills, whichever its preferred mode of endangering the motorist, then visibility rapidly dropped to zero. It chose to arrive this evening. Unable to see to the end of the village street, I braced myself for a load of cancellations, only two of which materialised as it happens, and looked solemn when the male Dr Martin presented himself at reception and asked for my advice.

  ‘There’s no telling, I’m afraid. They could still have brilliant sunshine in Taunton. That’s why we get such terrible pile-ups on the M5: people are bundling along minding their own business and suddenly they need radar to see the car in front.’

  ‘We’d better eat here, then.’ It didn’t sound like a request.

  ‘Would you prefer seven o’clock or nine?’

  He could have had any time between those, had I really wanted to be accommodating. When he hesitated, I added, tapping the page, ‘There is a table free at eight, as it happens, but there’s a big party arriving at the same time, so service might be slow.’ Which, I added, under my breath, wouldn’t matter since they weren’t exactly going anywhere afterwards.

  With aperitifs, a particularly strong Australian red to go through the meal, and an enchanting Beaume de Venise to accompany the rhubarb fool, I reckoned liqueurs with their coffees would pretty well have the Martins eating out of my hand.

  ‘But surely you have a police family liaison officer supporting you!’ I said, settling myself at their table as they told me curtly they didn’t know what progress was being made in the case. ‘He or she should practically live with you.’

  ‘Not if they were not invited to do so,’ she was still sober enough to riposte, looking meaningfully at me.

  ‘Not literally: I didn’t mean that. But they should keep you abreast of every train of enquiry, every development, no matter how small. That’s what we pay our taxes for, after all. I mean, with your background you’d be entitled to discuss the post-mortem findings, wouldn’t you? As medics?’

  ‘Our expertise doesn’t lie in that area,’ he conceded.

  ‘Two doctors in the house: I bet you’ve had so many phone calls saying the baby’s on its way. A friend of mine – he had a PhD in nutrition – actually helped deliver twins, would you believe? Now – I’m sorry, I don’t know your first names: I’m Josie and you’re—?’

  I became the holiday nightmare. But by the end of ten minutes I’d established that they were Thomas and Celine, they lived in what I deduced by their scathing references to the footballers who’d become near neighbours in a very chic area of Surrey, that Tim had been to one of the most expensive public schools (how on earth had he shed his accent?) and to Durham University, a terrible disappointment as they’d paid sufficient fees, one would have thought, to guarantee an Oxbridge place, and that he’d caught his religious bug during a tour of Durham Cathedral.

  ‘We hoped he’d grow out of it, but when he didn’t, we assumed that with our background and his brains he’d rise rapidly in the hierarchy.’ She sighed with regret.

  ‘Becoming a rector before you’re thirty can’t be seen as failure, surely,’ I said, wishing that Andy were here.

  ‘It’s hardly the eye of the storm, is it? You’re never going to hit the headlines…’ He realised what he was saying.

  ‘Except in these most tragic of circumstances,’ I concluded for him.

  ‘Mired in controversy,’ she added.

  ‘Martyrs tend to be, I suspect. Tim was a very brave, loving, kind, honourable young man,’ I declared. I’d said more than enough, and in any case another syllable would have had me in tears.

  ‘And foolhardy to the point of irresponsibility, according to DI – what was the woman’s name?’

  ‘Lawton, Thomas,’ Celine told her husband.

  ‘Were there any signs – when he was a boy – that he was going to be so altruistic?’ I asked, regretting my outburst and hoping my cooler language would obliterate it.

  ‘He did his work experience with some charity organisation,’ he said. ‘Despite the school finding something altogether more appropriate.’

  How could they still be so formal, so distant? I wanted, in the emptying dining room, to shake them into some sort of profession of love. But regular customers wanted to say goodbye, newcomers needed a proprietor’s schmooze, and it was none of my business anyway. At least I now had the name of his school to go on, and his university, of course. To go on! What did I think I was doing? As I smiled and shook hands, and diverted praise to my wonderful chefs, I cursed for being so stupid. I might have their names, but I still had no idea what they did and what made them tick, money and conventionality apart.

  Many, many years ago I’d been a reasonably adept pickpocket: that was how Tony, much too fly to let me get away with it, had come into my life. Was I nippy enough to dip her bag now? It hung enticingly open on the back of her chair.

  I left it a good fifteen minutes before I knocked on their door.

  ‘Dr Martin? Celine? Might I have a word?’

  There were a few seconds’ scuffling before I was admitted.

  Stepping firmly inside, I smiled. ‘One of my staff has just handed this in.’ I produced her wallet, a very slim elegant affair with a designer label. ‘I wonder if you’d mind just checking it is yours and that the contents are intact.’

  They were, of course. But that didn’t mean I hadn’t searched it thoroughly – every card a platinum one, of course, and, more interestingly, an ID for Danemans, a firm supplying most of the major food manufacturers in Europe, let alone the UK. It didn’t say what post she held, but I didn’t somehow see her as a minion scraping bits off chicken bones to make them int
o pâté.

  Their laptop computer was still on, the screen saver in place. Nothing as ordinary as blue skies and a palm tree or two. A company logo. It was one I didn’t happen to recognise, but I’d soon find out who it belonged to. Did I feel sorry for them working when they might have felt too stunned to pick up so much as a phone, or empathise with them? I always reckoned work was the best way of dealing with disagreeable feelings.

  To my amazement, having indeed checked the wallet, she flipped out a twenty-pound note. ‘For whoever handed it in.’

  I wasn’t about to make any confessions, was I?

  ‘Thank you. It’s unnecessary, but I’ll see she gets it.’ And with that I decided to embrace discretion and said my goodnights.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ‘I’m just waiting to meet the bishop,’ Andy said, his phone voice as discreet as if he were running a betting syndicate in the baptistry. ‘But I thought you’d want to hear the latest news. Apparently the coroner doesn’t want to release the bodies for burial yet, and I’ve promised to be there when the police break the news to the parents.’

  ‘Tim’s parents,’ I corrected him. ‘Some poor couple back in China will never know what happened to their son…’ I pushed away the pile of invoices I was working on to the far side of my desk.

  ‘Perhaps for the best? They’ll think he’s too busy enjoying himself to think of them?’

  ‘Or wonder why the snakeheads are beating up their other kids because Tang’s defaulted on his payments?’ I asked, as grim as Nick on a bad day. It was, after all, well before nine in the morning.

  ‘I’m afraid you could be right.’ There was a moment’s hesitation before he continued, ‘Anyway, we’re all meeting for lunch – chez vous if that’s OK.’

  ‘Which you want served where?’

  ‘The restaurant, I think. Because they’re not going to like Lawton’s news, and I think being with other people may protect her from their acid tongues.’